Monday, February 17, 2014

The Foster Family by Jaime Samms

Blurb Growing
up in foster care has left Kerry Grey with little self-esteem or hope
for his future. A college dropout, Kerry scrapes by on a part-time job
at a garden nursery. His friendship with his boss and working with the
plants are the only high points in Kerry’s life. He’s been dating the
man who bullied him at school, but when his boyfriend abandons him at a
party, Kerry wanders down the beach to drown his sorrows in a bottle of
scotch.

Malcolm
Holmes and Charlie Stone have been together for fifteen years. Despite
Charlie's willingness to accept Malcolm's unspoken domination in
bed,something is missing from their relationship. Early one morning,
they rescue a passed out Kerry from being washed away by the tide and
Charlie immediately senses a kindred spirit in the lost younger man.
When Kerry’s roommate kicks him out, Malcolm and Charlie invite him into
their home. As Charlie and Kerry bond over Charlie’s garden, Malcolm
sees Kerry may be just who they have been looking for to complete their
lives. All they have to do is show Kerry, and each other, that Kerry's
submissive tendencies will fit their dynamic.

But
someone is sabotaging Kerry at every turn. As he struggles to discover
the culprit, he fears for the safety of his new friends. If Malcolm and
Charlie cannot help, their lifelong search for their perfect third may
not end with the happily ever after they imagined.

Excerpt FUCKING
HELL, it was freaking cold. Matthew had been in my room again. He must
have, the bastard. He liked coming in and opening all the fucking
windows to “air the place out.” He’d even open the one right over my bed
when he figured I was hungover or aching from a nighttime visit from
Andrew. It must have rained all night this time, because I was soaked.
“Worst. Fucking. Roommate. Ever. Goddamn hotshot grad student can
fucking well buy me a new fucking mattress now.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone swear that much.”

“You think we should wake him?”

“What
the fuck!” I jolted upright. Grit scraped against my palms. Light
speared my eyeballs, and I shuffled back toward the cold wall. Only
there was nothing there, and I tumbled onto my back again. Chill seeped
up around my shoulders to swallow me.

Two
blurry men in shorts and sneakers and a lot of bare skin stood over me.
They both had the right outline against the clear, torturous blue of
the sky to be buff. Shirts trailed from the waistbands of their shorts.
They both reached down big, tanned hands to within my nearsighted circle
to steady me.

“These yours?” one of them asked, holding up a dark, squiggling blur.

“Gimme my fucking glasses.”

White split across both fuzzy faces.

“You have a special pair just for fucking?” One man tilted his head slightly. “That’s kind of kinky, isn’t it?”

“Charlie.”
The other of the men glanced in the speaker’s direction. His voice was
slightly admonishing, but not without humor. I just wasn’t sure if the
amusement was being directed at me or not.

“Give
me my fuc—” I let out a huff. “Can I please have my glasses?” I held up
a hand, fully expecting it to get slapped aside and laughter to follow.

I
knew how these things went. As soon as they realized I could see fuck
all without the lenses, they’d keep them just out of reach to see how
desperate I’d get to have them back. It was a common tactic, and a lot
of experience with being on the wrong end of it reminded me that just
sitting there being polite was the quickest way to get them too bored to
continue the torment. Eventually they’d toss the glasses off somewhere
and leave me alone.

Instead,
a warm, strong hand gripped mine, and an even stronger tug encouraged
me to scramble to my feet before I got my arm yanked out of my socket.
As it was, my foot slipped again and I landed, face-first against a
broad, sweaty, slightly hairy chest. I was not handed my glasses. They
were gently set in place on my face, and once I had blinked the world
back into focus, I found myself confronted by two very good-looking men,
probably close to ten years older than me, arms crossed, faces almost
stern as they studied me in turn.

“Missed the bus to the hotel, did you?” the one not named Charles asked.

I blinked at him again.

“The
party last night, kid,” he said, indicating with a wave the golf course
clubhouse down the beach. “You miss your ride home? Because I gotta
tell you, sleeping on the beach, not such a stellar plan. Your suit’s
toast, for one thing.” He gently straightened one of my lapels and
pulled the drooping flower I’d stolen from a bouquet free of the pocket.
He tossed it with a flick into the waves.

I looked down at myself and the three inches of water lapping around my feet.

“Tide’s
coming in,” he went on. “I mean seriously. We’ve caught couples still
necking on the boardwalk this early in the morning, but waiting to get
washed out to sea? It was just a dance. Even if your girl left you on
the dance floor, it can’t be that bad.”

“What the hell would you know about it?” I muttered.

They glanced at each other, then back at me as I patted my pockets for my keys and phone.

“You okay, kid?”

“I’m
fine,” I muttered, going a little frantic when I found nothing but
empty pockets. “Sorry I slept on your precious beach. Later.” I turned
to go back the way I’d come the night before, hoping I’d find my missing
life somewhere in the sand, but the way was impassable. The tide had
devoured the beach right up to the stony cliff face that jutted out
toward the sea about fifty feet off. It had claimed another inch of my
pants as I stood there. My back was caked in saltwater and sand from
lying on the ground, and my feet felt like ice inside my shoes.

“You’ll
have to come up through the garden,” not-Charles said. “You can’t get
back to the club along the beach now, and in another fifteen minutes,
this section will be about six feet under water.” He turned to slosh
through the ankle-deep water to a set of steps leading up through a
carved-out section of the cliff. “Coming? Because you can stand there
all day, but”—he tilted his head—“I don’t like your chances. You’ll be
under the waterline.” He pointed to the evidence on the cliff face.

“I’m not short,” I protested.

They
both smirked, but facts were facts. Six feet of water was about eight
inches more water than I could comfortably stand flat-footed in and
still be able to breathe, and since swimming in a suit was beyond
stupid, I followed them up the steps.